


think of heaven while you run

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't Try This At Home, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Kidnapping, M/M, Presumed Dead, Self-Sacrificing Tony Stark, Torture, insane escape plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:19:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: “I need you to kill me,” Tony says, not a trace of joking in his voice. His lungs feel like they are still filled with more water than air and broken bones grind against each other as he crawls slowly across the room to lay his life in Steve’s hands.“I can’t,” Steve says, but Tony knows he will do it. He might hate himself for it later, but he can be trusted to always make the hard choice.- Tony and Steve get captured, which only turns into a real problem when their kidnappers dose Steve with an unknown substance that antagonises the serum. Rendered helpless, he has to watch Tony being tortured right in front of him. Even all but broken, Tony finds a way out for them, although Steve is not sure whether he can live with himself afterwards if they go through with it. Tony, in turn, is utterly too happy to lay down his life for Steve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first entry for this year's Marvel Big Bang. I started writing this when I wasn't in a good place, but it gets a happy ending. Self-care is important.  
> A big thank you to [athletiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athletiger) for agreeing to beta this. And kudos to [mitochondrials](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondrials) for creating such wonderful art for it. (Link is following!)  
> Now, enjoy!

“I can’t believe you’re actually dragging me out here,” Tony whines as he walks down a street at Steve’s side. _Walks_ like a peasant, though he knows better than to say that out loud. He is mostly teasing, anyway, because for once they have not been arguing after a mission but were almost satisfied with each other’s work on the field.

“Tony,” Steve sighs, surely growing tired of constantly repeating his arguments, “the debriefings are important. How else are we going to learn from our mistakes?”

By ‘debriefings’ he means torture sessions, although Steve usually manages to look like he does not only accept them as a necessary evil but thinks of them as actually useful. Tony has never shared these delusions. But it is his mistake he is here, because he has gone for coffee instead of hiding away in his workshop where he could have easily locked Steve out instead of letting himself be talked into coming.

“By realizing them without allowing Fury to yell at all of us,” he says, anticipating Steve’s glare only to shrug it off.

“The director’s manners might be lacking a bit but –”

“Nope, you’re not defending the pirate. He’s mean.” Tony pouts for good measure. It is more fun to rile Steve up when they are not already prepared to shout at each other. “Also, we could have just flown over.”

Because walking is no fun in New York. There is always someone bound to recognize them.

“A bit of a walk and fresh air will do you good,” Steve argues, reminding Tony of the many talks about a healthy lifestyle they have had before and which Tony likes to ignore completely. “And it’s good to not lose touch with the real world.”

“You want to be seen by your admirers, is that it?” Tony grins, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “I could have carried you with the suit, bridal style even. That would have drawn their attention.”

Having the picture in his head, Tony cannot help but laugh. That would be news he would like to read.

“Tony.” Steve sighs in a way that Tony knows all too well. It means that there is a lecture coming his way. Business as usual then, because he is just not able to throw the constant disapproval Steve regards him with. But he does not want to get chewed out before he even steps foot in Fury’s presence. Once a day is quite enough.

So when Steve opens his mouth, Tony is prepared to wave him off, to make a biting comment or two to keep them bickering instead of diving right into their real issues. He is stopped short, however, when Steve’s face morphs into an expression of surprise and then a grimace that seems to stem from pain, although Tony cannot see a reason for that. Only when Steve raises a hand to his neck, the motion somewhat sluggish and poorly executed, does Tony see the small dart sticking out of Steve’s skin, nothing more than a grey dot, easily overlooked if not for the fact that Steve is now digging his fingernails into his own neck as if to claw it out.

“Steve,” Tony barks, as he falls into a defensive position, scanning their surroundings, “stay with me.”

He is very, very upset now that he did not bring the suit. He does not even have the gauntlet bracelet on him, since he had been in the middle of upgrading it when they were last called out to save the day. Well, if he is not careful, he will not do any saving now.

“Tony,” Steve calls out. His voice is so wrong, warped by a sudden weakness that is so uncharacteristic that Tony glances at his friend, half expecting to see him bleeding on the ground.

That moment of distraction is enough for their hidden enemy to strike again. Had he not been waiting for it, the short prick in the skin of Tony’s neck might have gone unnoticed. He does feel it, though, and he can still only watch helplessly as Steve tumbles to the ground in front of him, and he follows not long after, when the pain shooting through him has his legs giving out under him.

Instinctively, Tony flexes his wrist, calling for a repulsor to form and power up to shoot, but nothing happens. His mind, as he falls unconscious, is full of curses.

 

* * *

 

Tony is the first to wake up. That in itself is worrying. Knocking Steve out is a feat very hard to achieve without copious amounts of preparation. But they kept him down without the serum burning through whatever substance was in that needle in a manner of minutes, which pushes this situation far above any ordinary kidnapping and into dangerous territory. These bad guys knew who they were going for and how to deal with him. Which bears the question whether Tony is just a casualty or a second intended target.

“Steve,” Tony says quietly. The name is thrown back from the bare walls around him almost mockingly.

There is no answer. He tries to move but finds that he is bound, hands and feet, to a metal chair, which leaves him slumped in a very uncomfortable position. For a moment, he just wants to lean back and keep his eyes closed. If he does not see what is happening, it might just as well not be real. Illusions have never done him any good, though.

His vision is still blurry and his mouth dry, and he can barely grasp where is up and down. He shakes his head in the hopes to clear his senses but stops the motion abruptly when all it does is cause pain to explode inside his skull. This headache is of the pounding sort, getting worse with every move or intake of breath. Too bad that he cannot quite allow himself the luxury of lying down in a dark corner and forget all about the world until he feels better.

Forcing his eyes all the way open, Tony blinks against the harsh brightness of his surroundings. They are in a sort of cell; tiled floor of questionable cleanliness, cracked concrete walls, reinforced metal door adorned with several dents although none of them appear to have had much success in actually getting through. The room is rather spacey, and filled with nothing but three chairs, one of them facing him.

Looking to the side, Tony finds Steve sitting in much the same position as himself, only that he is bound by chains whereas Tony feels ropes cutting into the skin of his wrists.

“Steve,” he tries again, to no avail.

Steve’s head is hanging to the side, giving Tony a perfect view of a scratch on his cheek, drawing up all the way to his eyebrow. For some reason, this makes Tony more furious than being taken in the first place. He does not like people being hurt on his watch.

“Steve.” Tony does not dare raise his voice too much, lest he alerts their captors to the fact that he is awake again when Steve is not.

There is a good five feet between them, and still Tony tries to reach out. Maybe if he manages to move the chair with him, or even topple it over, he could get close enough to wake Steve. But no matter how much effort he puts into it, the chair does not budge. Looking down, he realizes that it is bolted to the floor. No way around that as he is.

Tony makes a quick mental inventory of what he had in his pockets when they left the tower, searching for something that might be of help in the situation they are in. But when he glances down at himself, he notices that his jacket is gone and his shoes too. Even his trouser pockets are turned inside out. Glancing at Steve confirms the same with him.

Definitely no amateurs.

“Dammit, Steve, wake up.” This time, he knows he is wasting his breath. Steve seems well and truly out of it, and unnaturally pale too, his breathing shallow.

Tony concentrates back on the room, trying to find anything he missed. But there is nothing, only bare walls. At least there is no camera either.

Unable to sit still, Tony begins to test his restraints again. With enough patience, he might be able to wriggle free. If nothing else, it gives him a purpose while he waits for something to happen. With as little as he currently knows, he cannot exactly make a plan.

An hour later, the ropes still hold fast, and all Tony has achieved is hurting his hand to the point where the burning pain does not stop anymore when he ceases his struggle for a moment. The cut on Steve’s cheek is still bleeding sluggishly.

Time has never mattered much to Tony. Being a Stark and owning as successful a company as Stark Industries means that he had always been able to do what he wanted when he wanted it. He can spend days in his workshop and never once look up from his latest project. Even during board meetings or charity galas, his brain is never quiet; he is not used to stillness.

Waiting for Steve to wake up seems to take an eternity, in which he cannot plan or work because his hands are bound and his head threatens to split apart if the pain is any indicator, and he does not know enough about their situation to push through it and do his part anyway.

So when a trembling groan runs through Steve’s body right before he jerks upright, Tony’s first thought is to be relieved. Even if Steve looks like shit, feverish and hurting and not at all like a supersoldier able to withstand even the direst of circumstances without flinching.

Steve looks around wildly, baring his teeth against the pain, but is apparently unable to get a grasp on reality. When he starts throwing himself against his chains, Tony snaps “Steve” in as commanding a tone as he can manage.

He has to repeat himself twice more before Steve calms down, looking at him with such honest confusion on his face that Tony wishes he could reach out to calm him.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says instead, hoping that the familiar sarcasm will ground them both, but Steve only flinches from it. He still looks very much out of sorts.

“Tony?” Steve rasps. His breathing sounds strained, like he has to work against a sudden obstacle keeping the air from entering his lungs freely.

“The one and only.” Tony’s worry only grows when his flippant response does not elicit the usual tired sigh. At least the confused dizziness slowly leaves Steve’s face. Once Tony is sure he is fully there with him, he asks, “Everything all right?”

Everything is not all right, of course. It cannot be with the two of them locked up together in what seems like a typical villain’s basement. They cannot know yet why they have been taken, but it is always good to get the variables right from the very beginning. And right now, Tony needs to find out how much help Steve is going to be and if his battered state is only a temporary thing or if there is something seriously wrong.

“I’m – I’m not sure,” Steve says, almost coughing the words out, so unwillingly do they cross over his lips. “I’m not feeling so well.”

It is disconcerting to see the Avenger’s almost invincible leader this battered. Even now, he is too pale, too limp. Tony has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from answering with more sarcasm.

“How long was I out?”

Tony shrugs, careful to not let his worry show. “Too long.”

Too long by far. Their captors could have shot him with something other than what they used for Steve. In fact, Tony is very much hoping for that. Otherwise, they are dealing with an unknown substance that affects Steve – enhanced as he is, immune to so many things and able to burn quickly through everything else – much more than it did Tony, who is as human as he can get, especially now that the arc reactor is out of his chest again.

“I’m feeling sick,” Steve mutters, almost too quiet for Tony to hear, but Tony is watching him like a hawk, taking in every twitch and grimace. He is looking for clues and any sign of Steve getting better.

“Sick like you’re going to vomit?” Tony asks, keeping his voice as unconcerned as he can. No need to push either of them into a panic by making a fuss about something he cannot change.

“Sick like I’m burning up from the inside.” There is not a trace of doubt in Steve’s voice when he answers, although he stares down at himself as if he expects actual flames to rise out of his chest.

Tony slumps in his seat, shutting his eyes for a long minute. “Great.”

There cannot be any certainty but Tony’s suspicions are solidifying quickly. And if they turn out to be true, they are in more trouble than he has anticipated.

“What?” Steve’s head snaps up. He is obviously disquieted by Tony’s display, but Tony does not know how to put his thoughts into words without raising a number of questions he does not have an answer to.

Finally, he simply says, “You have a cut on your cheek that I’ve been watching for the past three hours. It has finally stopped bleeding some time ago but it has not even begun to heal.”

Tony does not have to explain what that means. A minor wound of that size should barely be visible anymore by now. And the fact that it has not only not healed but also kept on bleeding for far longer than normal for even an unenhanced human, makes things worse.

Forming inaudible words, Steve looks at him with growing horror in his eyes. All the while Tony has to take great care not to let his increasing resignation show.

Tony is somewhat used to getting out of situations like this. If being kidnapped were a sport, he would be one of the most promising competitors. But, thinking of Yinsen, his track record of getting civilians out unharmed is not the best.  And Steve without the serum, bound to a chair and barely coping with his body’s reaction, is almost worse than a civilian. Usually taking charge, handling scenarios of a much larger scale, but rendered unable to. Tony almost pities him.

“Three hours?” Steve echoes helplessly, looking around like he expects something to confirm this.

“Give or take.” Tony is sure Steve is not interested in his internal clock being skewed by the sedative and the windowless room. The important part is that it was a long time. Too long for Steve to be out of it.

“But the serum –” Steve trails off, unsure how to proceed, how to address the issue without inviting a whole new set of fears into his mind.

In turn, Tony keeps his answer very vague, very cautious. “They might have found something to work against that. Must have been in the stuff they used to take us down.”

Barely able to comprehend the words, Steve’s eyes are wild and unfocussed. Having the serum implemented in his system must have been a shock in itself, but at least Steve had had an idea of what to expect. To have it fail him now so suddenly is unsurprisingly overwhelming.

Tony gives him time. Their situation is bad enough without him making it worse by pushing Steve on before he has had a chance to even try to accept what is happening. The idea of it, at least, has to take root in his thoughts.

Finally, Steve looks up again, eyes shining treacherously. His expression is one of determination, though. Not as hard as it usually is, but he is still putting in a lot of effort to not let this distract him beyond the point where he is no help at all.

“They?” he asks, voice hoarse but firm, deciding to concentrate on something else for the moment.

“I don’t know,” Tony says almost gently, admiring how quickly Steve has gotten a grip on himself – without extensive training to keep his own problems secret like Tony has had. “No one has come to see us yet.”

They share a look. It is obviously not a good sign that their captors take their sweet time, making them appear rather certain of their victory. Rushed operations are much easier to disrupt.

The whole time Tony has waited, he has not heard a single sound filter in through the metal door to their cell. The room could be soundproof, but it still raises the creepy feeling of being abandoned here, with no idea where they are and no way out either. However, if all of this were an elaborate setup for the two of them to drive each other mad in their solitude, Tony would at the very least expect several cameras recording the whole thing. That does not make the waiting easier.

It is almost a relief when they finally do hear someone approaching. Several people, heavy footsteps, no conversation. They come to a stop in front of the room, and Steve and Tony have barely time enough to share a quick look before the door begins to open, and less time even to prepare themselves for the impending company.

Steve, Tony sees out of the corner of his eyes, balls his hands into fist and tries his best to ban all emotion from his face. There is no hiding his exhaustion, but the current amount of pain, at least, can be downplayed.

Tony himself simply straightens in his chair as much as the restraints allow. Howard always instructed him to meet life with his back straight and his head held high. _Smile, boy. Never let them see a flaw in your composure._ Tony does not smile now, but neither does he look intimidated. They might not be meeting on his terms, but that does not mean that he cannot turn the game around.

“Let me do the talking,” he hisses quietly, hoping that Steve’s current state will force him to comply. Hot-headedness will get them nowhere, and beneath the pained incomprehension in Steve’s eyes lies undeniably murder.

Six men enter; five of them in combat gear, wearing a sort of uniform that is not subtle about the weapons they carry, and one man in a suit. It is nothing as expensive as Tony is used to, but he wears it with authority. He walks leisurely over to the third chair, and takes in his unwilling guests before he sits down. His men spread out behind him, a wall and warning both.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He is old, with white hair and a wrinkled face, but his voice is almost melodious. He has the air of someone who is going to make this difficult, who has no doubts that he has a right to do whatever it takes to achieve his goal.

“Is it already evening?” Tony quips, sounding utterly unconcerned even while his thoughts are racing. It was not quite noon when they left for the debriefing, which means that someone must have noticed their absence by now, even if Fury discounted them never showing up to the meeting as wilful misbehaviour. “Our accommodations sadly lack a clock. And several other key features.”

The old man hums apologetically. “I’m very sorry about that, but safety took precedence over comfort.” His smile makes him look almost harmless, if not for their surroundings and his companions. “It was all rather hurried.”

Tony very much doubts that but keeps his expression neutral. Shrugging, he says, “Let us go now and all is forgotten.” He says that just for the principle of the thing. Additionally it serves as a subtle encouragement to start telling him why they are here.

“That would counter all the effort we took to bring you in, don’t you think?”

Tony keeps himself from glancing at Steve, whose mysterious silence is probably due more to him still not feeling well rather than an actual willingness to let Tony handle this.

“I’m thinking there is still a way to solve this amicably,” he remarks grandly. He has learned early on to cater to people’s expectations of him, and he is supposed to be a self-important megalomaniac, disregarding all danger to himself, just because he got lucky once and called himself a hero ever since.

“Is there?” their captor asks, not believing his attitude. In fact, he seems close to dismissing Tony completely, inclining his head in Steve’s direction. “Your friend’s expression says otherwise.”

Steve might not thank him for it, but Tony cannot leave him to this man’s questionable mercy, so he raises his voice in challenge. “Well, I’m the one negotiating with you.”

“Who says this is a negotiation?” The man’s smile widens for a short moment, making him look like a predator preparing to pounce. The expression is soon replaced by something milder, nearly asking for understanding. “Listen, Mr. Stark, during our work we have encountered several complications, which we hope you will help us with.”

“Like hell we will,” Steve suddenly spits, voice sounding much livelier than before. His struggle against the chains, too, appears to have regained strength. Tony’s relief at that is rather short-lived, however, because it could have worked to their advantage that Steve is getting better, but not if he announces it to the whole world like that.

At once, their captor’s interest shifts entirely to Steve, looking at him like he is a specimen in a lab. With another private smile, he gets to his feet and slowly walks over to Steve, circling him once before coming to a stop right in front of him. He even goes so far as to lean down until their faces are mere inches from each other, entirely unafraid of the fury looking back at him.

“My, you truly are an interesting creature,” he says, chuckling quietly.

Steve, in turn, throws himself forward as much as the chains allow, baring his teeth in a silent growl. All his fighting is useless, however, and their captor shows himself unimpressed by the obvious threat.

Clicking his tongue, he says, “But rather untamed. We should do something about that.”

If at all possible, Tony’s back straightens further. This sounds like the armed men are not only here for intimidation purposes but a rather more hands-on strategy. The old man grins at him in a way that has Tony expecting a blow to come for him, maybe a bullet in some non-vital part of his body. Instead, one of the guards step forward, bearing a small case he offers his boss, who opens it without much ceremony. In it is a syringe, filled with a clear liquid, looking almost like water. The almost gleeful expression on their captor’s face promises that it is anything but.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, only to be ignored. “What is in that?”

“No worries. This is just a demonstration.”

The man does not step away from Steve, does not turn to Tony again at all. He gestures at the guard who then proceeds to hold Steve’s head in place. It is another testimony to the fact that something is severely wrong with Steve that he cannot break free from the hold. Taking care to stay clear of the needle, the old man raises the syringe to Steve’s neck and goes straight for the jugular.

Steve keeps struggling, almost snarling as the liquid enters his system. After a long minute, he freezes in place, eyes opening wide, and then his mouth opens to let out a blood-curdling scream that hangs in the air long after Steve bites down on his lips to cut off the sound. Sweat glistens on his skin, making it look like he is aglow with agony. With increasingly less strength, he throws himself against his restraints until it looks more like he is wrecked by spasms instead of actually fighting. It does not take long then for him to slump in the chair, head lolling and eyes vacant, not quite there anymore and on the brink of blacking out completely.

Tony wants to yell at their captors to stop, to shout for Steve to come back from whatever abyss he has just been thrown into, but he pushes down the instinct hard. It is already done and he cannot afford to lose his cool, especially not now that he is the only one left standing.

“Marvellous,” the old man says, voice full of scientific joy.

Reaching out, he lifts up Steve’s face to have a better look, before letting it fall back down carelessly. Steve does not react at all. In turn, Tony has to concentrate on his breathing to not fall into a panic attack.

“What was that?” Tony asks when he trusts himself to speak without spitting curses. Still, there is a slight tremor to his words, which the old man obviously notices, since he smiles in an entirely pleased way.

Walking back to his chair, their captor sits down and faces Tony, not wasting another glance at Steve. “Why don’t we talk like civilized human beings?”

Tony has a lot of choice words for that lying on the tip of his tongue, but he takes care to swallow all of them, burying them somewhere deep inside his chest. They are in a situation he does not need to make worse before he knows what they are up against.

“Civilization must have changed a lot since you took us,” Tony says somewhat bitterly, “or you’ve just been holed up down here for too long.”

“The view is rather nice from the upper floors.”

Which does not tell Tony anything. It could mean they are overlooking New York or located in an abandoned countryside. Maybe the man even enjoys staring at the backyard of a slaughterhouse all day.

Before he can answer though, their captor gives another command just by inclining his head towards Tony. One of the guards gets a knife out of his pocket, the blade glinting harshly in the bright light, and twirls it in his hands as if to make sure that Tony has seen it. Then he circles behind him, causing the hair in Tony’s neck to stand at attention. If he abhors something, it is drawn weapons in his back. All that happens, however, is that the ropes around his hands and feet get cut loose.

They must not think him much of a threat, which is clearly not a wrong assumption. Even if he were not facing six armed men who are not still suffering the after effects of having been taken out by a sedative, there is still the fact of Steve sitting mostly helpless right in the open. Tony cannot fight and keep Steve from harm at the same time, even with all the extra training he has gotten since joining the Avengers.

He refrains from making any sudden moves to test his regained freedom. All he does is uncurl his arms from their rather uncomfortable position to shake some feeling back into them. Pulling them in front of his chest, he regards the angry red marks circling his wrists.

“All right,” Tony says, mindful of how he paces the words, “let’s talk.”

The old man smiles and nods. “It would be tempting to let a mind like yours tinker with our ideas but,” here he shrugs almost apologetically, “I haven’t come down here to spill all our secrets.”

Which means they have no intention to lessen the unknown substance’s potential as a threat by telling Tony what it is, how it works or how to counter it. It also means they might not have anything worse at the ready. Although this is naturally bad enough.

“But,” the old man continues, “we might be willing to agree to a trade.”

“A trade of what?” Tony lets the tiniest bit of desperation slip into his tone, even though all he wants is to rip that smile off the old man’s face and give him a taste of his own medicine.

At least, they are finally returning to familiar waters. People always want something from Tony. Money, power, tech. He can handle that better than watching Steve be tortured.

Predictably, the answer is, “Knowledge, of course.”

“And here I thought you would offer us something more substantial,” Tony says, not bothering to hold the sarcasm back, “like our lives.”

Leaning back in his chair, the old man regards Tony almost benevolently. “We have no intention of wasting your genius.” With a lazy gesture, he points at Steve, who seems a little bit more awake again, but still infinitely weak. “Your friend, on the other hand, is here solely as a motivation for you.”

Tony swallows several times to keep down the anger surging in his stomach. That answers that question, at least. He is not a casualty but was the target all along. And Steve, he must admit, makes for a very good hostage. Even if he hopes he would do his best to save anyone, no matter who they put in the chair next to him, taking someone who is part of his family just makes this personal.

“Considering what you are going to give us,” the old man adds, coldly amused, “he is utterly expendable.”

Just like that, the puzzle pieces fall into place. Tony stares at Steve, who has bitten his lip bloody in an effort not to show his pain, and who looks back at him with an expression caught between pleading and determination. Pleading for what, however? To get him out of here, or to stop talking with this despicable man altogether. Tony knows human nature well enough to believe it is a bit of both.

His thoughts are racing, pushing back against the constantly worsening headache. He needs to make a plan, to find a way to handle this situation. Preferably before Steve gets injected with more untested stuff, perhaps even weakening to a point of no return.

Steeling himself, he turns back to their captor and says, utterly toneless, “You want me to recreate the serum.”

In a twisted sort of way, it makes sense. They are obviously doing research on the matter, because no one accidentally creates a substance able to counteract the serum’s effect without knowing quite a bit about it. They took Steve, who is the only living sample, and Tony, because he is a genius and because the original serum would not exist without Howard Stark.

The old man simply nods, looking pleased like a father watching his son master a difficult task. Not that Tony would know anything about proud parents.

The thing is, from a scientific point of view it is not at all impossible. It has been done before and Tony has read fragments of the original research, of SHIELD’s data and Bruce’s experiments. It would be a challenge but doable. Morally it is utterly wrong, of course, even if it were not this week’s villain asking for it, holding Steve hostage just to prove a point.

Tony could say yes. He could do what he does best and improvise. Give them a little bit of what they want, while working on a way to get them out of here. There is Steve, though. It is not much the hateful disapproval that will earn him as the simple fact that Tony does not want to see his friend in pain. Not this pain, against which he cannot do a thing because it apparently works against his very being.

They share a long glance. Steve has trouble focussing on him, but the intent in his eyes is nonetheless clear. _Don’t you dare do this._ Tony almost sighs. Why do they always have to take the hard way?

Gathering every ounce of calm he can muster, Tony turns back to their captor. “I’m not convinced.” He was always good at pretending to be nonchalant. It riles people up so wonderfully.

True enough, the old man frowns. “Do you think this is a joking matter?” He does not threaten them explicitly, but the air around them still tastes of sweat and pain. “I can assure you that my employers are very eager to see results and not exactly patient about it.”

Tony ponders whether he would get anywhere with asking more about these mystery employers. But, well, they are one step up from HYDRA at least, in terms of secrecy. No blazing logos to see anywhere. No grand speeches about how they are the ultimate salvation for their world.

Instead, he feigns concern. “Then you had better hurry to tell them I said no.”

“I’m afraid that is not an option.” The old man does seem in a hurry, because he does not waste any more time on words but gestures at the men behind him. “It is too soon for another dose but we can always resort to the old-fashioned ways.”

Two of the guards move out towards Steve, their expression almost bored. Steve, on the other hand, looks up at them with something like panic crossing his face, indicating just how much he is affected by whatever they gave him. Captain America is not afraid of a beating. Which means it is not only his body that is compromised but also his psyche as well.

“You will not touch him.” It takes all Tony has not to shout. He cannot appear to be crumbling, even if everything inside him wishes to reach out and shield Steve from what these men are threatening to do to him.

The old man glances at him. “That is entirely up to you,” he says, mildly chiding. “You’ll find that we have a generously outfitted lab for you upstairs. You’ll have food and water. We won’t hurt him if you do as we say.”

Tony has all but forgotten about the man still standing behind him, too concentrated on the threat in front of him. Now he steps around him, though, and, almost casually, backhands Tony, causing him to bite his tongue and his headache to spike. Tony hides his surprise by looking affronted, then spits out blood.

“I guess I found the naughty word of the day.” He smirks, sticking out his chin as if to the dare the guard to hit him again. “ _No._ ”

The second hit does not come. Instead the two other men reach out for Steve; one propping him up for better access, the other rolling his shoulders as if to warm up his muscles for the beating he is about to give. Tony raises his hand to stop them and, surprisingly, they halt in their movement.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly. That happens when one speaks with blood in their mouth,” Tony rasps, rolling his eyes for good measure, “but _no_ , I will not work for you, and _no_ , you will not touch him.”

Knuckles crack at his side, but their captor does not issue another order yet. “One of these is going to happen,” he says mildly, looking like he thinks it a regrettable waste. “Or, if you keep refusing, both.”

Tony makes a show of confidence that they all know is exaggerated, but his intent is clear. With some satisfaction, he repeats himself. “No.” Then, keeping his head held high, almost in invitation for another blow, he adds, “For one very simple reason.”

The old man settles more comfortably in his chair and regards Tony with amused interest. “And what would that be?”

Now for the difficult part. Tony realizes he has nothing to bargain with, really. Nothing but his brain. Everything else is worthless since they are never going to leave here anyway, if the matter is left to the men holding them.

“You obviously need me to help you out.” He is not sure about that. They have come pretty far without him already. And if they hope for him to have access to his father’s detailed notes they will be disappointed soon enough. “But if you hurt him,” Tony gestures at Steve without looking, “I will not do a thing.” This is tricky as it is. He cannot let them see how much he cares about this if he wants them to ignore the best bargaining chip they have. “And if I don’t, you need him, right? Better one supersoldier than none at all.”

The old man is not impressed with Tony’ reasoning, but at least he is still listening. They both know that Steve is not going to be much of a help to them, unless they go through HYDRA’s full brainwashing routine, which takes time they might not have. Also, one man means nothing when they are aiming for an army.

“So, we leave him alone and you’ll do your part.”

Even without looking, Tony can feel Steve glare at him. It has become such a familiar sensation over the past years; earning more and more disapproval as time passes, just like other people may gain trust. He understands it, in a way. Tony has never made an effort to show himself as a moral being, while that is all Steve claims to be at times. Of course, they clash. Of course, Steve does not trust him to do the right thing. It still hurts.

“I didn’t say that.” He shrugs, smirking.

“I wonder who taught you to negotiate,” the old man remarks, a first hint of annoyance creeping into his tone.

They need to wrap this up now, Tony knows, or he has lost. “No one,” he quips, sounding like he does not have a care in the world, like he is at home where everyone caters to his wishes. “I usually just get what I want.”

“Well, those times are over.” Not a glance in Steve’s direction anymore. Their captor’s attention is fully on him now, and his amusement is steadily running out.

“Are they?” Tony smiles serenely before he gets utterly serious, leaving no doubt that he means what he says. “Touch him and you’ll lose us both.”

“I wonder whether you are deliberately leaving out demands of not touching _you_.”

Inwardly, Tony curses, but forces himself to wince, turning his expression to surprised shock and back into something like reluctant determination. He has come so far, he cannot lose his progress now.

“You can try,” he says, aiming for a mocking tone, almost laughing at himself. He has never been one to invite people to stomp all over him. It has never stopped them from doing so, of course, but this is a new low, even for him.

They stare at each other, raising the challenge in their gazes. That is, naturally, when Steve decides to interfere.

“Tony,” he says from the side, sounding so very tired but also desperate, pleading almost. “I can take it.”

Even if this were not about the principle of the thing, Tony very much doubts that he can, looking like he does.

“Listen to your friend.” The old man looks down at him with pity but his voice if full of fake regret.

Tony keeps looking stubbornly ahead, unwilling to give Steve’s statement any more weight. “I’d prefer you listening to me.”

_Success_ , he thinks when something dangerous glints in their captor’s eyes. “Oh, well, I’ll give you some time to reconsider.”

With a last meaningful glance, he turns around and leaves the room. His men, on the other hand, stay behind. There is no real question what will happen, just who they are going to turn to first. Tony is relieved when black combat slacks fill his vision, but the first blow takes him by surprise nonetheless.

While he is still reeling from the pain blossoming through his skull, someone pushes him from behind, so that he falls forward, out of the chair and knees-first onto the ground. This is not a good place, kneeling in front of these men, but he does not have the time to do something about it before they lay into him again.

The hits are delivered with clinical precision. This is not personal; they do as they are told and nothing more. Tony is relieved when they do not aim to break bones, and his head is mostly off limits too. Presumably to spare his brain. They do need that, after all.

Still, he curls on the ground, trying to protect his stomach, and arching when they kick his back instead. Pain spreads from his arms over his torso, engulfing him whole. He twitches at their feet like an unwanted marionette. When they stop, he does not dare move, lest he sets them off again. He hears the metal door opening and closing, but all he does is blink helplessly at the floor, wishing they would have turned out the lights, because piecing himself back together is so much easier when he does not have to look at himself.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks as soon as they are alone. He looks agitated but his body is tense in a way that comes from him trying to stay somewhat upright instead of the struggle to storm forward and pick Tony up from the floor.

Tony himself does not say a word at first. He keeps lying where he is, making a mental inventory of everything that hurts. It could be worse, surely. His head rings and his stomach aches, the coldness of the floor helps soothe the soreness of his back. This was just a warning, not a real beating.

When nausea surges, he shoots to his feet despite the pain that causes him and staggers to a corner of the room. He empties his stomach until there is nothing left and keeps dry-heaving afterwards.

“Just what I needed,” he mutters, wiping his mouth clean with his sleeve.

“Tony?” Steve calls, voice pitching, less angry now and more worried, “are you all right?”

“Just peachy,” Tony sighs. He has always hated this question, since people only ever seem to ask it when they either not want to hear an honest answer or it is very clear that something is wrong. And _all right_ truly does not have any place here. “I’m simply mourning the fact that I just gave up the last nutrition my body will likely get for a while. I think that offer for food and water is off the table for now.”

Thankfully, Steve does not have a ready answer for that, because Tony is not in the mood for another argument so soon. Although he has arguably won the last one.

Straightening with a groan, Tony makes his way over to Steve, taking a closer look at him. Steve is still unnaturally pale and cold to the touch. His face seems gaunt, as if they have spent a substantially greater amount of time down here in this basement than mere hours. Tony does not say any of that, however. Instead, he circles around Steve, getting down to have a look at the chains binding him. The result here is not unexpected either.

“I can’t open them without tools.” And he cannot get any tools down here.

The chains rattle as Steve strains uselessly against them, doing as much good as he did before.

In a helpless show of comfort, Tony clasps Steve’s shoulder and is worried to find it trembling. In fact, all of Steve’s muscles are shaken by tremors. This whole situation just keeps getting better.

He goes back to his own chair to give his legs a rest but faces Steve.

“We can’t let them do this again,” Steve says but does not sound like he usually would. This is not his righteous Captain-voice. There is too much desperation mingled in. It is not a good look for him. “You don’t have to protect me.”

There, at least, is some of the old indignation. Tony shakes his head. “If you feel the way you look, I can’t let them touch you.”

“I’ve had worse.”

Of course, he has. This is one of Steve’s less favourable traits, always loading more onto his shoulders then he can carry. Maybe they are not so different after all. Only Tony would never say that out loud. He has decades of being the spoiled millionaire brat working against him here. No one has accused him of caring for other people in years.

“That may very well be,” Tony shrugs, then winces when it hurts, “but you had the serum working for you then. Now you haven’t.” Almost to himself, he adds, “However they managed that.”

He realized his mistake too late. Sounding curious in a situation like theirs is never a good thing and, of course, Steve picks up on that.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, glaring almost suspiciously at Tony.

But they do need to be honest with each other here, if they want to have a chance of getting out. Working together is a feat they usually only manage on the field, but it should not be too hard to imagine this as one big battle.

“Nothing you will like,” Tony answers, deliberately nonchalant.

Naturally, Steve catches up quickly, causing his face to close off. “You think of giving them what they want.” As usual, he is already prepared to condemn Tony, without hearing him out. There is no use in dismissing one of their options just because it does not sound good at first glance. Their alternatives are rather non-existent as it is.

“Of course not,” Tony says, with as much righteous conviction as he dares. “but I could pretend.”

“You can’t.”

Steve is right, of course. If these men have developed a successful way to counter the serum, they know what they are doing. Which means Tony can hardly stall for time like he did with the Ten Rings, who believed in the success of their intimidation tactics enough to leave Tony to his own devices. It is much harder to fool people who can keep up with him. which he has to assume they can.

Annoyance rises in Tony, but he stomps down on it. Playing for time to calm down, he takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulder in an attempt to locate where the most pain comes from.

“All I hear,” he then says, inwardly rolling his eyes at how unsuccessfully he hides his irritation, “is what I can’t do.”

And Steve, in a completely uncharacteristic move, ducks his head. “I – I just –”

“I’m sorry,” Tony waves Steve off. He is tired and hurting all over. “I won’t give them what they want. But I won’t let you suffer the consequences for that either.”

They are both in this together, and Tony has to remember how horrible it must be for Steve, rendered helpless by an unknown substance hijacking his system.

“But they will not stop,” Steve says, not quite an argument and not a question either.

Tony chuckles quietly. Of course not. “I know. We’ll just have to work on a plan and maybe hope that they slip up somewhere.”

“Tony –”

“Steve,” Tony cuts him off decidedly. They should not waste energy on useless arguments. “It’s all right. There’s nothing we can do right now, so try to get some rest.”

Steve does not look happy at all by being dismissed, but Tony can see the exhaustion tugging at him. They need to find out how long that serum dampener works, how quickly Steve regains his strength. If they can take their captors by surprise, they might have a fighting chance.

Tony does not like the odds for that, but there is also truly nothing he can do about it. Abandoning the chair, he props himself up against a wall where he has a clear sight of both the door and Steve, and closes his eyes. He would be surprised if he can sleep, but he needs to think, and to do so he cannot let his hurting bones interrupt his mind. And time, he realizes, is not in their favour.

 

* * *

 

They come again, hours later, and the old man is not pleased when Tony’s answer has not changed. He turns towards Steve despite Tony’s protest and empties another syringe into his neck, putting him into an almost catatonic state.

“You still want to spare him?” he then spits at Tony and scoffs in disgust when all he receives is a nod. At least he is not in the mood to talk further, because Tony does not want to anger him too much, lest he does turn on Steve after all in retribution.

“Leave his head and hands intact,” their captor tells his men and leaves, barely glancing back. He seems to have a dislike for blood.

And, oh, there is blood this time. Not much, but enough to keep Tony’s eyes fixed on the tiles in front of him, where red mixes with old stains, and he wonders what other unfortunate souls have bled onto this floor.

He loses himself in the corner of his mind that permanently dwells in that cave in Afghanistan. It still holds all the same horrors, but they have become somewhat familiar by now, allowing him to partly hide himself from the reality of what is happening to him in the presence.

Distantly, he registers the damage done to him, although from a completely detached point of view. A fist meets his jaw that has his ears ringing and his vision greying. A knee to his stomach that has bile rising in his throat, while his hands move to protect the arc reactor, even though it no longer resides in his chest. His arms are grabbed and forced back, leaving him wide open for blows to rain down on him without respite. When they let him go, he falls to the ground. Kicks are aimed to his back and ribs, sending shudders through his whole body. Someone stomps on his leg, breaking bone.

The pain is liberating, somehow. It will get worse, he has no illusions about that, but for now, no one is asking him questions or forces him to work. It means he can stop biting his lips to keep from screaming. He can allow his mind to wander without having to spit refusal at their captors.

More bones are cracking, ribs and his arm. The taste of iron in his mouth is almost as familiar as alcohol. Tony smiles through it, imagines how it must look: a dead man’s grin, teeth stained with blood. He reaches out for the small puddle of red pooling in front of him.

That is when Tony hears screams that are not his own, unintelligible shouting, words he cannot make out. For a long moment, panic takes hold of him. Are they not satisfied with his pain? Has he miscalculated and they started hurting Steve too?

With considerable effort, Tony lifts his head and tries to glance at Steve, but there is blood in his eyes, so he cannot see anything but red. He needs to know what is happening, though, so he blinks furiously. Captain America is their best shot of getting out of here. Tony tells himself that is the only reason he looks.

None of the bastards is even close to Steve. He still sits more or less upright in his chair, struggling against his chains with failing strength. The sight has relief flooding through Tony’s system, enough so that he forgets all about the blows still coming down on him. That is until he sees how Steve is looking at him, face filled with trembling horror.

Steve is unharmed, though. Relatively. And that is what matters, what Tony has set out to do from the very beginning.

Their first mistake, Tony knows, was letting him talk. They let him offer himself up as a sacrifice. None of them knows how to break him. They cannot. That privilege is his alone.

The thought amuses him so much that he laughs, giving the men pause for only a moment. It is a terrible sound, satiated with madness, and maybe they are as afraid of it as the still rational part of Tony’s brain is. They have their orders, however, and they keep beating him, avoiding his eyes when he glances up at them. Throughout it all, he keeps laughing.

Right until he blackens out.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t keep doing this,” Steve says, voice weak from the latest dose of the serum dampener.

“Watch me,” Tony answers cheerfully. He is barely able to sit up when he is coughing. Blood stains his hand when he pulls it away. Moments later, he spits out a tooth.

He does not look at Steve, thinking he would actually prefer the disapproving glares over this blatant concern. Tony has not much experience with other people worrying about him.

Days pass. It feels like hours and weeks both, but Tony’s sense of time is screwed because he is unconscious more than he is awake.

The only word that still has meaning, is _no_. He says it to the old man as often as he does to Steve.

 

* * *

 

At one point, the old man comes in with an almost gleeful expression on his face. Tony is too exhausted to even dread what is coming. Although that is only until the guards drag in a metal tub.

“I hear you have an affinity for water.”

The threat alone has Tony’s throat constricting. He cannot breathe, but at least he cannot scream either, cannot find the air to say something he will regret.

“Nothing to say?” the old man asks, “I can make all of this go away.”

Unable to do anything else, Tony just mutely shakes his head, which is as much a refusal as a plea.

He offers no resistance when two men all but carry him over to the tub. The water looks cold. All water looks cold to him now. They bind his hands behind his back, and his first panicked thought is that he cannot protect the battery this way, that he cannot keep himself from being electrocuted. There is no battery, though. There is no use in fighting, either, even if he could grab the edge of the tub, because he is so weak he can barely keep himself upright on his knees. Although he does not have to. Someone grabs his shoulders and his head, and there is no warning before they plunge him right into the water.

Tony tries to think of the sea in Malibu, no matter that, since coming back, he has been barely able to look at it, soundproofing the outer walls so he does not have to hear it either, for that just invited more nightmares in. There is a lot of water in New York too. Too much of it at times. He tries to calm himself and fails.

There is nothing but water around him. Now he screams, but all that does is opening him right up for the horror to take him apart. The water burns in his eyes, his lungs, his very brain.

Tony barely notices when they pull him out. He coughs and coughs and tries to breathe. When he hears a voice over his frantic heartbeat, he whimpers, “No.”

They drown him. Again and again _and again_. One would think that, with his history, he would know that they are not going to let him die. They will not even dare to let asphyxia damage his brain to the point where they cannot use it anymore. He cannot help but think that this is it, though, each time he comes spluttering and wheezing back to the surface, barely able to realize there is once again air around him before they plunge him right back in. This time, surely, he will succumb to the relentless call of his failing lungs.

His memories blur into each other. Here he is four and Howard pushes him into the pool, expecting him to take to swimming as he did to math. There he is in Afghanistan, his chest aching both from drowning and the occasional electric spark from the battery.

He thinks _Steve_ and then _no_ , over and over. Refusal is the only thing left to him, especially now that he feels himself dissolving in old fears.

“No,” he says. Under water and out of it. No. No. _No_.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, there will be a lot of yelling. About them letting themselves get taken by surprise. About who is at fault, who should have paid more attention. About them being supposed to have each other’s back. But the yelling will be done by everyone else, because Tony and Steve will be too busy falling into each other’s arms – unbound and unscarred – to make sure they are all right and together, promising that from now on nothing will get between them again.

Oh, look. Tony’s mind has made a thing. It thinks of an after when there is barely even a now. Tony is not even sure whether he can still call it ‘wishful thinking’ because he is honestly so far beyond that. Illusionary disintegration, perhaps. Severe miscomprehension of reality.

He will have to ask Pepper about the appropriate term if – _when_ they get out. Then again, he has never been interested in having his damages analysed. Not that he usually has a choice when he allows people the opportunity to glance beneath his masks. Discussing other people’s faults has always been one of humanity’s favourite sports.

“Tony.”

A voice registers dimly in his ears, but he does not move. There will be pain if he does – more pain than he is in now. And his mind is actually in a somewhat pleasant place for the moment. If he moves, it means he has to wake up, and even while he can barely hold on to a thought for longer than a moment, it is still better than returning to reality. That has the added downside of constantly dangling him over an abyss with Afghanistan waiting on the ground, and while he has survived that, it is still not a memory he likes returning to. Replacing one nightmare with another has never done him any good.

Also, he needs to think, and carefully so. Offering himself up as a punching back has worked out well so far. If ‘well’ means putting them both out of commission. It is really just him soothing his constant guilt by not having to watch them hurt Steve on his account. And this will not work much longer anyway. He is nearing the end of his strength and they must know. If they still want him alive, it is time to change tactics.

“Tony, wake up.”

Out of spite, he wishes he would not. Nothing makes losing one’s consciousness sound more enticing than good old-fashioned pain.

But again, “Tony.”

Steve – for he realizes now that it is Steve, not another figment of his mind or an echo of the past – sounds afraid almost, an urgency in his tone that borders on desperation. That is the only reason he answers. He would not want to be left alone in this cell with only the unmoving corpse of a friend as company.

“I’m alive,” he says, although it comes out more like a raspy moan. His throat feels like it is filled with dried blood, scratching and burning and convulsing around water that might just as well never leave him again.

Propping himself up, while carefully avoiding to put pressure on his broken arm, Tony coughs. And there is the pain, surging up before settling back amplified into his very being, the oldest of friends.

“I’m alive,” he repeats, more to prove it to himself than to reassure Steve. Neither of them fully believes it.

“Are you –” Steve begins but breaks off just when choked off laughter bursts from Tony’s cracked lips.

Is he what? Insane? Thoroughly beaten? In dire need of a vacation, far away from even the smallest pond? Yes to all of that. But he is not all right. Nor is he sure he will be up for anything resembling a breakout any time soon.

“Can you breathe?” Steve adjusts his question, although his tone still has that panicked note.

What a stupid thing to ask, Tony thinks. Every intake of air feels like fire filling him up slowly, burning through the inside of his chest. Every breath is ragged, painfully audible, probably even through that reinforced metal door separating them from his new best friends. So, yes, he is breathing. The more interesting question would be how long he will be able to keep that up.

“Haven’t suffocated yet,” Tony says, aiming for a casual tone although there truly is no use in pretending, “so the bleeding must have stopped.”

This does not calm Steve down at all but Tony has bigger problems than holding Captain America’s hand right now. Not that he could move enough to do that anyway.

“Can you walk?”

Steve winces under the glare Tony sends him. Tony is not sure he can sit for much longer, much less make it even to the door. But, yes, he can walk if he has to, if they have a shot at getting out of there. Only it does not look like it. At all.

“Is the sedative wearing out?” Tony asks back. Planning does not make any sense before Steve is not at least halfway restored to his old strength. And Tony has sadly not been quite up to observing Steve’s reaction since the application of each new dose happened just before Tony reacquainted himself with their captors’ fists. Rude of him, really.

“I –” Steve trails off, sounding so uncertain that Tony glances up at him. He looks so lost, eyes shadowed and shoulders hunched, that Tony’s heart goes out to him. “It’s been a while since the last dose.”

Which means Tony has been out a long while too. He is losing more and more time.

Completely miserable, Steve adds, “I can’t get the chains off.”

Well, Tony thinks, that puts a halt to about all the ideas he has. He tries to raise a hand to his face, maybe wipe the grime and blood out of his eyes, but he starts shaking halfway through the movement and lets his hand fall uselessly down on his chest. His heart is still beating, at least.

For the first time, he regrets that the arc reactor is gone. For years, he has seen it as a weakness. It powered the suit, yes, but it also made him vulnerable. Anyone could just take it out like Stane had done, ultimately leaving him to die at his own hands. His bomb, his shrapnel, his failings.

They could have used a bit of energy here, though, could have maybe even used JARVIS’ constant monitoring of the energy levels to their advantage. But it is gone now, and Tony is not one to waste thoughts on failed opportunities.

An idea comes to his mind suddenly, causing him to jerk upright, oblivious of the pain.

“All right,” he says, almost excited. “I’ve got a plan. It’s actually quite easy.”

He knows how he must look, staring at Steve with a grin on his beaten face. Madness runs in his blood. His father had it, his mother too, albeit very different sorts, Howard’s raging where Maria’s was melancholy. Madness does not have to be a bad thing if it settles comfortably in one’s bones.

“But?” Steve asks. There has to be a catch, naturally. Otherwise they would not still be here, would not be battered and weak. Tony is not that much a fan of torture that he holds back a perfectly feasible plan of action just for the kicks of it.

Almost solemnly, he holds Steve’s gaze. “I need you to kill me.”

Tony’s strained breathing is the only thing audible in the silence that ensues. Even his lungs feel lighter, now that he sees a way in front of them instead of only a dead-end filled with water and blood.

“What?” Steve exclaims, almost choking on the word. He looks away, somehow angry and full of grief at the same time. “Tony, this is not funny.”

No, it is not, but Tony still feels like laughing, because it is so simple. Were he not already thoroughly beaten up, he might hit himself for not thinking of this earlier.

“I’m completely serious,” he says, mind racing ahead. “I guess choking will be easiest and quickest. Give me a second and I’ll crawl over to you.” Already in the process of putting his one good arm on the ground, he halts again, “You can move your thighs enough for this to work, yes?”

This is not the way he pictured himself going, but at least there are Captain America’s thighs involved. All in all, things could be worse.

Only Steve does not see it the same way, for he looks at Tony with obvious concern, glancing at the metal tub – left behind as a warning, although it at least supplies them with something to drink – like he thinks the latest bout of waterboarding has finally driven him over the edge.

“What are you even talking about?” Steve asks, voice breaking, “I will not choke you. Have you gone completely insane?”

Has he ever been not insane? As interesting a debate that would be, there is no time for philosophy. Their captors could come back any minute and the thought of crossing the room now is daunting enough without taking another beating into the equation.

“We need to stop my heart,” Tony explains impatiently, like Steve should know this. Why does no one ever keep up with him?  

A thousand protests lie on Steve’s tongue but what comes finally forth is a breathless, “Why?”

“When I still had the arc reactor, I had some problems with my heart giving out every now and then.” Tony should spare his strength and not waste it on long-winded explanations, but the familiarity of it is soothing his pain and calming his racing mind. “I had a chip implanted to notify JARVIS of it, so he could engage the appropriate counter measures.”

Steve’s breathing has calmed a bit, now that he is getting some answers, but the wild look in his eyes remains. There is still the same word waiting at the back of his throat that Tony has been spitting out non-stop for the past eternity. _No._

“But you don’t have the arc reactor anymore,” Steve tries to reason, groaning when Tony only shakes his head dismissively.

“But I still have the chip.” He has not looked after it since removing the arc reactor but he built it himself so he is reasonably sure that it is still working. “So if my heart stops, an emergency signal will get out which JARVIS will pick up, and then he can send help.” He smiles widely, almost deliriously, carefully making sure that Steve cannot notice any trace of doubt he might harbour. “The team will have our coordinates. They can come for us.”

Steve still does not look convinced or anywhere close to agreeing to the plan, even though it is the only one they have. “But I can’t restart your heart,” he says helplessly. Not with bound hands, likely not even if he had free reign of them.

“And you won’t have to,” Tony answers, aiming for a cheerful tone. “I have an ICD that’ll do the job for you.”

Tony does not mention that the chances of that working out are rather slim. Even if the device works as it is supposed to, Tony’s heart has had so much abuse heaped on it over the years, he is not sure it will react kindly to what he has planned for it now. That does not matter, though. Left here for much longer, he will be done for anyway. He is not a young man anymore, has not been healthy in a long time. They have to act now if they want to have any chance at all.

Of course, this is the moment that Steve decides to let Captain America resurface. “No,” he refuses firmly, leaning forward as if to lecture Tony but winces when the chains hold him back.

Tony wants to roll his eyes but one is swollen shut and the other not far behind, so he just sighs wearily.

“Look, Steve,” he says, failing at sounding patient, “I don’t have the energy to argue with you. If you have a better plan I’m very happy to listen but time is running out.”

“The sedative is still strong,” Steve argues as if he will need much strength to choke someone who will not put up a fight. “I can’t –”

“Time is running out for _me_ ,” Tony cuts him off. This is a point he needs to make clear. He knows he does not look good, but seeing something and believing it are two completely different things. “You won’t have to do much at all. Crawling over to you will probably cause me to blacken out already, so let’s hope I’ll make it in one go and then you do your magic with your thighs and we’ll hopefully be out of here in no time at all.”

“Tony,” Steve says. There is so much raw emotions in the name that Tony cannot look at Steve, afraid of what he will find in his eyes. They all knew what they were signing up for, and this is not Tony’s first rodeo. It is not even his worst, because he is here with someone he even almost trusts, someone who raises their chances for escape immeasurably, even pumped full of serum-dampening sedatives.

Carefully, Tony slides completely down to the ground again. There is no way he will try walking, not with his broken leg. Even crawling will burn up most of his reserves, he is sure. But what else is there to do? Using his good arm, Tony slowly pulls himself forward, kicking uselessly with his leg. The floor is full of grime and dried blood, almost reaching out to hold him back.

He makes it half the distance before he has to pause. His breath is laboured, sending stinging pain through his ribcage. He cannot stop for long, he knows, otherwise he will not get going again.

“Have I ever told you that I didn’t mean it?” Tony muses, unable to turn his head to look at Steve. He keeps his eyes closed instead and just imagines him, which is the better choice anyway, since the Steve in his mind is still strong and unbroken, prepared to catch him when he finally lets go. “Not everything special about you came out of a bottle. Look at you here, holding up even without the serum. More so, with the serum turned against you.”

Steve huffs, albeit without amusement. “Don’t try to butter me up with compliments.” His voice is thick. Might be anger, might be tears. Although Tony is sure that is stupid. Steve would never cry for him. Iron Man, maybe, but not him.

Sighing, Tony gets moving again. Blackness creeps into his vision, enough so that their cell becomes a surreal sight. He is fading so much faster than he has feared. With a last painful sigh, Tony props himself up against Steve’s leg, bound tightly to the chair, and lets his head sink down on Steve’s thigh. He breathes carefully. Only a few more seconds and he can give into the darkness calling for him. He needs to make sure Steve does as he needs to first, however.

It is funny, really. For years Tony has been so very good at riling up Captain America, often to the point where Steve’s fingers where twitching, doubtlessly drawn to Tony’s proudly bared throat. A few choice words here or there, sarcasm, his uncaring attitude; they have always been pitched against each other. Only now that Steve is actually supposed to do something about it, having Tony’s explicit permission to choke out his worthless life, he naturally has qualms about it.

“Tony –” Steve tries again, but Tony is barely holding on as it is.

“Just do it,” he spits out, thinking how very unfair it is how much Steve wants him to be complicit in this almost-murder.

“I –” For a long moment, neither of them moves. Then, slowly, like a mountain crumbling over time, Steve nods. Tony feels it as a tremble moving through the both of them. “I’m sorry,” he says, and positions himself as much as his restraints allow.

Tony feels Steve’s warmth around him, muscles shaking with both exhaustion and reluctance. He has always imagined this differently, him and Steve getting close to each other.

He nudges Steve’s leg with his hand, thinking that the waiting is the worst part. Although when the pressure finally comes, engulfing his already abused throat, Tony realizes that this is not really much different from drowning. His lungs still burn, his mind still panics. He has always hoped for a clean death.

“Hey, Steve,” he mutters with the last of his breath, “I wish we could have been more to each other.”

He does not say ‘I love you.’ Both because he is not sure it is true – _love_ is not something he can claim to know much about – and because he cannot burden Steve with this if he truly does not wake up. All his life he has been described as selfish, but he cannot go this far. Deathbed confessions are not really his style. And Steve does not need Tony’s guilt heaped upon him too.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again and then something more but all Tony can hear is his own heartbeat racing in his ears, growing more panicked while he claws at the stale air around them, trying to force it into his lungs. He scratches at Steve’s thighs, distantly noticing the broken bones in his arm grinding against each other, but to no avail. Steve keeps talking while he holds on tight to Tony’s throat, legs trembling but never loosening the death trap they have become.

Tony’s last thought is full of gratefulness that this is going to be over soon. It is tinged by a bit of regret too, but then, mercifully, his battered body gives out. And then there is nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sucks in a deep breath and then, abruptly, starts laughing. It is a brittle sound,  
> full of sharp edges, slicing his insides open. That must be what insanity feels like,  
> this complete loss of reason, his mind imploding and doing its best to erase everything  
> that is him. He laughs and laughs, and this is how they find him: bound to a chair, without a  
> single scratch on him, laughing over Tony Stark's dead body.

Steve holds on for as long as he dares. He cannot look away from Tony’s twitching body, has to follow each tiny movement, each wretched gasp, because the alternative would be to think and how can he do that when he is in the middle of murdering a friend? Then Tony grows unbearably quiet and still Steve does not relax his thighs. How does he know when this is over? How does he know when Tony’s heart has stopped? He cannot use his hands to check Tony’s pulse, cannot lower him gently to the ground, hold him as life leaves him. Not that he has the right.

Finally he cannot bear it anymore and lets go. The abrupt movement startles Tony’s body into sliding from its shaky posture against Steve’s leg and he is not quick enough to catch him. Tony falls to the floor and lands with his back to Steve, so he cannot even see his face, cannot see whether he starts breathing again.

A sob tears itself from Steve’s throat, echoing curiously in the otherwise stifling silence. He is filled with the eerie knowledge that he is alone.

Still, “Tony,” he calls. First quietly, his own voice hoarse like it is him who has just been choked, then growing louder until he is just shy of screaming with all he has. He does not even care anymore if someone is going to hear him. Let them come. Let them beat him. They need Tony, so maybe they will save him, bring him back to the life that Steve has just stolen from him.

But no one comes. No one cares to look in on their prisoners. Or, rather, on their prisoner and the corpse. Because Tony is so still, Steve cannot delude himself into thinking of him any differently.

He fervently hopes that Tony’s plan has worked, at least, that the signal went out and their team got their coordinates. He cannot have killed Tony for nothing. At the same time, and cruelly so, he wishes that no one will come to see his shame, that he will be allowed to crumble here into dust next to his friend. Being left to die has to be kinder than having to live with himself afterwards.

Sobbing, he thinks about giving in to the pain. For days now, he has fought against the strange substance cursing through his veins, even though, intellectually, he knows there is nothing he can do. On the other hand, he inherently believes that he would have faded much more, would have maybe succumbed to it already, had he not struggled.

_Don’t give up_ , his mother had always told him, meaning the growing number of diseases his body was at war with when he was a child. _You won’t get better if you don’t want to_.

There is only one thing he wants right now, and he would gladly give his last ounce of strength to see it happen. But he keeps his breathing even, listens to his heart. Hope is a strange thing, unparalleled by any other power, and he has never quite stopped believing in it.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, noises have Steve whip up his head. Insanity is clawing at him, shrieking and embedding itself within his very core. First, he believes it is just his imagination playing tricks on him. His whole life has been filled with battles, so of course he thinks he hears one when he is being torn apart from the inside and all the bad things he is made of are spilling out.

The sounds come closer, however. Shots and the distinct noise of flying arrows, radio chatter, hurried steps. Steve wants to call out, wants to be found, but his throat constricts, making sure not a single word crosses over his lips. They cannot come in here and see the aftermath of what has happened. They cannot see him sitting over Tony’s corpse.

No one will have to know. Tony’s wounds are severe enough that no one will doubt he has succumbed to them. No one will pay the pressure marks on his throat much mind with how much of a ruin the rest of his body is. Who would ever suspect Captain America of doing such a horrible thing?

The explanation is simple. The bad guys beat Tony up, again and again, until his heart gave out and they left him here to rot. The signal went out but it was already too late. There was nothing Steve could have done.

Steve is disgusted with himself. He makes himself look at Tony while the battle outside draws nearer. He looks at how pale Tony’s skin is beneath all the blood and dirt and colourful bruises. If not for all of that, he could be asleep, crashed after a working binge in the workshop, completely exhausted. Steve wonders who he is trying to kid.

“They’ve come for us,” he says into the emptiness of the room. His voice is utterly flat. “You were right. They got that signal and now they’ve come for us.”

Predictably, Tony does not answer.

“It’s all right,” Steve adds.

He sucks in a deep breath and then, abruptly, starts laughing. It is a brittle sound, full of sharp edges, slicing his insides open. That must be what insanity feels like, this complete loss of reason, his mind imploding and doing its best to erase everything that is him. He laughs and laughs and that is how they find him: bound to a chair, without a single scratch on him, laughing over Tony Stark’s dead body.

Even Natasha’s face does not stay impassive but she is still the first one to move.

“Clint,” she orders in a clipped tone, “take care of Steve.”

_Take care_ , Steve cackles in the confines of his head. He almost expects an arrow to pierce his throat any second now, anything to turn off his laughing, his mad self. But Clint only hurries over, blade in hand, to cut his restraints. A knife will not cut chains, he knows, but he is too preoccupied to care much at all.

Steve watches as Natasha kneels down at Tony’s side, pushing him onto his back, but then Bruce appears too and blocks his line of sight. He howls, the sound barely human. He needs to know, needs to see their expression fall as they realize what has happened. He needs to see their grief because he is not sure he has any in him anymore. Or maybe he is made of it and just cannot recognize it because there is nothing else left.

“We got a pulse,” Bruce says urgently and they move in a strange synchrony.

It causes Steve’s laughter to rise up a notch. _A pulse_ , he thinks, not even bothering anymore to fight against the hysterics. Corpses do not have a pulse, he knows that. He has known enough dead people, has killed so many himself. A pulse means there is life, and they are all very much dead. Or Tony is. Maybe he is too, because if he has learned anything about fate, it is that it is impossible for them to be found by their team _and_ Tony to be alive. There are always sacrifices to be made. Life does not make exceptions.

Suddenly, he feels the chains around his wrists fall away. Blood rushes into his arms, but the tingling barely registers in his mind. All he knows is that he can reach out now, he can move to push Bruce out of the way, to see Tony again and return to his reality.

Steve’s strength is still very much drained but Bruce flies nonetheless halfway through the cell after Steve’s fist connects with his shoulder with a sickening crunch. A voice in his mind comments that he should not keep their appointed medic away from Tony but he ignores it. He also does not notice the uproar around him, Nat’s frown or Clint’s arms on him, holding him back. His legs are still bound, so when he lunges forward, he crashes to the ground, knees impacting painfully with the floor, although that barely pierces through the fog in his mind. Right there, within reach, is Tony, sickly pale and unmoving.

“Take him down,” someone yells but Steve only laughs again.

They are already down, rock-bottom, nowhere left to go. The pinprick of the needle goes unnoticed in his thrashing and the way his mind grows only hazier does not strike him as odd. He has no right for an easy way out but he is fading and when darkness comes for him, he embraces it gladly.

 

* * *

 

The next time Steve wakes, it is to the relentless beeping of a heart monitor. There are IVs in both his arms, continuously dripping something into his blood. He has had enough things running through his system lately that all he wants is to rip it all out, but when he tries to move, he finds he is bound to the bed. The restrains are padded but secure.

So he did make up the rescue. Their team did not come for them. Tony did not have a pulse.

The old man must have ordered his men to move Steve, probably afraid to lose his second prisoner too. Steve finds that he does not care.

Curiously enough, he feels better than he has any right to. The burning filling his body is nothing more than an echo. His mind does not feel slow anymore, filled with only panic and dread. He is still exhausted but that is not surprising.

When the door opens, Steve clenches his jaw. He should pretend he is still weak, make them underestimate him, but sudden fury leaves no room for that. He wants to rip this whole place apart, himself notwithstanding.

It is not the old man coming in, though, which gives him halt.

“You’re awake,” Natasha says, lingering in the doorway for a short moment. She almost seems reluctant to enter, but then her expression is smooth again and she strides to his bedside like she is not surprised to see him staring back at her, uncomprehending and not quite trusting what is before his eyes.

There are a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue – _What happened? Is this real? Where are the old man and his goons?_ – but there is only one that really matters.

“Where is Tony?” Steve asks, the words tumbling over each other, he is in such a rush to get them out.

“Don’t worry,” Nat says as if it is possible for him not to worry after what has happened to them. “He is here. He is alive.”

_Alive_ , Steve wonders and cannot quite comprehend it. He cannot feel joy at the thought for he is still made up of fear. His mind has turned into a graveyard and there is a trail of blood leading him to a stone bearing Tony’s name. Life has no place where they have been.

“He’s gone through extensive surgery,” Natasha adds, clearly seeing his doubts. “He has not woken up yet, and the doctors cannot say anything definite yet, but I promise you he is alive.”

Steve does not know what to do with promises either.

“Where _is_ he?” he asks again, more forcefully. He makes to stand but is held back by his bound hands and feet. How tired he is of being restrained.

“I’m sorry about that,” Natasha points at the bindings, not sounding very apologetic, “you were hitting everyone who came close to you and clawed at yourself when you were alone.” She does not make a move to free him.

To be honest, Steve would not either. His mind is raw, an open wound he cannot make sense of.

“Tony,” he says, pleading.

Finally, Natasha gives in. “He has a room down the floor. You cannot go to him. No one can yet.”

“He cannot be alone.” The mere thought is maddening. After the past days, Tony might not want to see any of them, to hide his wounds away and his weakness, but there is nothing worse than being left with nothing but one’s thoughts after being taken apart piece by piece. Putting oneself back together is not an easy thing, especially not when there is no one to help.

“JARVIS is talking to him.”

“JARVIS?” Steve does not say anything further, but his grimace is enough for Nat to understand him. Tony needs more than his AI. Or maybe Steve needs Tony enough to simply accept this excuse.

Natasha watches him with her eyebrow raised. “The voice seemed to calm him.”

Of course. Jarvis, the human one, might just as well have been Tony’s oldest friend, stemming from a time before weapons and wars and utterly fallible heroes.

Still, it does not reassure Steve, does not lessen his need to go to Tony and see him with his own eyes, see his chest moving while he breathes, listen to his heartbeat. There is still a chance that all of this is a dream, that they did not come back, that he has simply grown insane and made up a reality of his own.

But they are not going to let him go. Not before they are not sure that there is no lasting damage to his body _and_ mind. He concedes that they are right to worry.

With considerable effort, Steve tries to find a comfortable position in the bed. After days of being chained to a chair, laying on his back feels strange. He would like to curl up, to hide away his face from this world he has almost stopped believing he would see again.

He can test the restraints later, when Natasha is gone, when he has maybe gathered the courage to face the fact whether the serum is working again as it should.

“So the signal worked out?” Steve asks. Despite his misgivings, he does not want Natasha to leave yet, does not want to be left with only his guilt.

He deliberately does not ask about the men who had taken them. That is a question for another time, when he is settled again in his own mind and does not lust for murder for what they have done to Tony and him.

Natasha only looks at him with confusion, however. “What signal?”

His heart skipping a beat, Steve explains, “The signal from his heart chip. It was supposed to alert JARVIS.” There is no recognition in her eyes. “That’s why you came, yes?”

The cynical part of him knows what she is going to say before she even opens her mouth, and he wishes he could hold his hands over his ears so he does not have to hear it.

“There was no signal.”

Steve stares at her with mounting horror. She has no reason to lie to him but still he cannot believe her words. Because if there was no signal, if Tony’s chip did not work as intended, then Steve killed him for no reason. He had his friend’s throat between his thighs and choked him until there was nothing left but a shell, and it did not save them as promised.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers that the beeping of the heart monitor is spiking, hurting his ears. People are shouting, something cold flushes into his arm. As Steve sinks back into nothingness, he sees Tony in front of him, grinning with blood-stained teeth and broken bones sticking out of his skin.

_Just do it_ , he teases. _Time is running out for me_.

Whatever time he still had, Steve had taken it.

_We’ve got a pulse._

_I have an ICD that will do the job for you._

Lies, all of it. Lies.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, they let Steve out of the bed. After dozens of tests and more questions, they deem him safe. Although he is not sure about what for. Safe for them or safe for him. He still has not told anyone about what he has done to Tony.

When they try to keep him from entering Tony’s room, he just glares at them until they let him pass. People have never liked to stand in his way, but there is something else in their gaze as they step aside. Something that Steve does not want to analyse. He does not know himself anymore, but he knows that he has to see Tony.

The moment he lays eyes on him, however, he has to fight to stay where he is. Tony looks so incredibly small, his skin white where it is not littered with bruises. One arm and leg are in casts, and more than half of what is visible of him is covered in bandages.

A sob escapes Steve’s throat and the sound startles him.

“Tony,” he calls.

Of course, there is no answer. It is so reminiscent to the dozens of time he has called for Tony in that cell, that Steve finds he cannot breathe. Stumbling forward, he sinks onto the chair next to the bed, reaching out to touch Tony but stopping just shy of actually making contact.

He looks and looks until he sees Tony’s chest rising and falling. Only barely, probably due to his broken ribs, but once he has seen that, he notices everything else too. Tony’s carotid is pulsing at his throat, his eyes twitch beneath his closed eyelids, his skin is warm.

Steve can barely believe it, but Tony is truly alive. Still unconscious and looking anything but good, but alive. Steve has not killed him. He is relived but not enough to alleviate all of his guilt.

Leaning forward, he presses his forehead against one of Tony’s hands.

“Wake up, Tony,” he pleads. “Just wake up.” When there is no answer, he crumbles in his seat, wondering how he can put himself back together if Tony does not come back.

 

* * *

 

Steve sits for days at Tony’s bedside, barely moving and then only if someone bullies him into it, threatening to sedate him again if he does not eat something or shower or take a nap. He resents them for it even while he knows they are right. There is nothing he can do for Tony, nothing but keep him company, hold his hand, talk about anything that comes to his mind just so that Tony might hear him and have his voice guide him back to the land of the living.

He talks with JARVIS too, begins to see him as something more than a computer program – something he still cannot quite wrap his head around. JARVIS is a person in his own right, even if he does not have a body, even if Tony brought him to life by writing endless rows of code. He legitimately is one of Tony’s friends, and Steve can hear grief echoed in the British voice as easily as he recognizes it within himself.

Mostly, he watches Tony, watches his bruises grow darker before they begin to pale, watches his face and imagines what he dreams.

Which makes it all the more ridiculous that he does not notice Tony looking back at him before he speaks.

“Steve?” Tony croaks, sending a veritable shiver through him. For endless days, he has imagined Tony waking up, talking back to him. Nothing could have prepared him for the beauty of his own name on Tony’s tongue, though. It sounds painful, hoarse and ragged, but it is the reluctance behind it that truly hurts.

In turn, Steve puts all his relief into his own voice. “Tony,” he says, all the pretty words he has prepared vacating his mind. “I’m so glad.”

Somehow, it is enough.

There is not a lot of speaking after that, because JARVIS, dutiful as ever, has alerted the doctors of Tony’s revival, and when they come in, way too soon, they send Steve out, not allowing any protest. Steve does not want to leave, but more than that, he wants Tony to get better, to get out of that hospital bed and be all right. So he leaves, resuming his watch right outside the door until Clint comes and drags him off, saying something about _shower_ and _cheeseburger_.

All Steve can think of is Tony’s eyes looking back at him. It was not a lie. He truly is alive.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t ever do something like that again.”

Steve had planned on leaving all the heavy talking for later, until after Tony is released from the hospital. But they have never been good at small talk, and after they went through all the news about what happened after their rescue, they are left to look at each other in a completely new kind of helplessness.

Tony is still weak, but as far as the doctors can tell there is no damage to his brain due to lack of oxygen, and his bones will heal and his heart might recover. He was not in peak condition before this, but they have not made it unbearably worse.

In any case, he is still prone to fall back on sarcasm when he is uncomfortable.

“All right,” he says, smirking slightly. “Next time I’ll let the bad guys beat us to death. I’m sure that’ll be less straining.”

Steve holds back a sigh but cannot keep from frowning. “That’s not what I meant.”

Tony looks tired and Steve almost regrets not letting him rest for longer.

“I know. And believe me when I say I imagined ending up between your thighs very differently too. Not that I’m complaining. They felt as nice as they look, but I’m not actually into breath play.”

Tony pouts and he looks so ridiculous, half his face hidden by bandages, that Steve has to swallow a laugh and ruins his efforts by snorting loudly. Then the words register in his mind and he sobers immediately, becoming slightly wary.

“You imagined yourself between my thighs.”

It is _not_ a question, because he is not sure whether he wants to hear the answer, which he imagines to be right from the billionaire playboy’s mouth, not the real Tony underneath.

“Have you _seen_ them?” Tony jokes, true enough. “Have you seen all of you? Of course I did.”

Steve shakes his head, but he is not annoyed, because Tony’s eyes are still filled with wariness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, meaning a whole lot more than just their latest misadventure.

Tony, naturally, waves him off. “What for? Doing what I told you to do? If anything, you saved my life.”

This has Steve smiling sardonically, the very movement hurting. “I choked you until your heart stopped.”

Listen to this, Dr Erskine. Is that what a good man does?

“But I told you to,” Tony implores, almost pleading now himself, “I wouldn’t have lasted much longer. We needed the team to come.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. He cannot tell Tony that it did not work. That they stopped his heart for naught because the chip did not do as it was supposed to. There is a small chance that Tony’s heart just kept beating, despite their murderous effort, but Steve knows that Tony will not think of it that way. He will just take it as another failure. And Steve cannot let that happen. Not now when Tony still looks this broken.

“I just wish there had been another way,” he says quietly, hating himself. “If only I hadn’t been so useless.”

“They found a way to dampen the serum, Steve.” Tony looks at him incredulously. “I hate to burst your bubble, but without that you’re an ordinary man.” He smiles slightly, squeezing Steve’s hand. “Stubborn and gorgeous and a good man, perhaps, but just a man. No enhanced strength, no healing powers. There’s nothing you could have done and that is not your fault.”

Reality has seldom anything to do with what one thinks. “It feels like it.” Steve had come here to make Tony feel better and not heap his own pain onto him as well, but things have never been this open between them, all barriers down. He just cannot hold it back.

“Listen to someone who knows all about guilt.” Tony grimaces. “Hell, someone who is actually guilty of a lot of things.”

Not for the first time Steve thinks they have to do something about Tony’s self-esteem, but never before has he been this determined to actually pull through. Steve has it easy. He is a national icon. Tony, on the other hand, has been called the devil too many times to count. It is much harder to be a good person despite everyone else’s expectations, and still Tony managed it. Now he just has to understand it too.

“But they were beating you and you still managed to make a plan to get us out of there.” A flawed plan, perhaps, but more than Steve had come up with.

“Steve,” Tony sighs, never loosening his hold on Steve’s hand, “let’s stop talking about who got us in or out of this mess. We’re home.”

_Home_ , Steve thinks and still barely believes it. Although, looking at Tony, he might come around to that.

“I just –” Steve interrupts himself, unsure of how to put his feelings into words. Then decides to just skip the heavy truths for a while longer. “I can’t bear to see you like this ever again.”

Tony laughs. Despite the way it turns into a cough immediately, causing him to hold his rips, it is the loveliest sound Steve has ever heard.

“I’d prefer to skip the almost dying part next time too,” Tony jokes, once his lungs are ready to hold air again.

Steve does not grin, though, does not fall into easy banter. “I mean it,” he intones firmly. “And what you said, that you wished we’d been more to each other –”

He can pinpoint the very moment Tony starts to withdraw from him. His eyes dim, his hand in Steve’s goes limp. His lips turn into that facsimile of a smile he usually gives to the press.

“Never listen to the ramblings of a dying man,” he says, so utterly dismissive of his own feelings, now that he has done the impossible and come back to life.

Steve wishes he could erase this expression forever. “But I did listen,” he insists, “and I – I’ve wished for that too.”

Silence falls abruptly between them. Steve could swear that even Tony’s heart monitor comes to a halt, his own heart happily in pursuit. But he forces himself to keep breathing, just so that Tony might not see how frozen he is, interpreting it as regret when it is actually fear of rejection.

“You – what?” Tony finally asks, his voice hoarse. “That’s not the guilt speaking, yes? You did your part. There’s no need to play nice with me anymore.”

Instead of answering, Steve reaches out and carefully cups Tony’s cheek, trailing a small patch of exposed skin with his thumb. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Tony’s forehead, almost unbearably gentle.

“What –” Tony tries again and trails off, looking like he already misses the touch when Steve draws back.

“I’ve been wondering for a while now, but I was always afraid to dig deeper,” Steve explains, wondering why it is suddenly so easy to find the words. “I only wish it didn’t take almost losing you to see how much you really mean to me.”

Shifting in his bed, Tony looks at anything but Steve, almost making Steve think he has grossly miscalculated. But when Tony speaks, there is no mistaking his tone, not when Steve feels an echo of it right inside his own chest.

“Please tell me you’re serious and this is not just after-battle shock or something.”

Steve sits back in his chair and takes Tony’s hands back in both of his. They are easily the most beautiful thing about Tony, because unlike his thoughts and emotions, he cannot hide them away, cannot keep the callouses from touching Steve’s skin. They speak more of the man Tony is than his smiles and bravado ever could: no matter what he says or pretends, he will always be a man who _builds_.

“You’ve given me a home, Tony,” Steve says softly, “even when I didn’t deserve it.”

In response, Tony narrows his eyes. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

Steve does not let him work up a suitable defence against this thing that is just now growing between them. Shaking his head, he keeps the genius from speaking.

“First off, I do.” Steve shrugs. That is easy to admit now. “But I don’t mean the tower. I mean you. I’ve lost everyone when I went down with the Valkyrie. And then I woke up in this confusing new world and SHIELD was not really helpful, but then there was you, and I can’t believe how long it has taken me to see this.”

Smiling to himself, he gestures at Tony and himself, at the room, maybe at all of New York outside the window.

“You took us all in, and we’re all damaged and we’re a very explosive group. We clash, Tony, I know, we argue all the time, but you are a constant in my life. You’re always there, you’re generous and you care so much, no matter how much you pretend you don’t.”

Tony opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Steve tightens his hold on Tony’s hand. Now to the difficult part.

“You didn’t have to talk those men into beating you up. It actually makes no sense, because without the serum I was worse than useless there while you could have built something to get us out. But you didn’t.”

Because Steve asked him not to. Addled and out of his mind, but still holding onto his stupid principles of never giving even an inch to the bad guys. And Tony, who never cares what other people think, who only does what _he_ thinks right, had listened to him.

“You took beating after beating and egged them further on whenever they even glanced in my direction.” Steve almost looks away in shame, but he is sure that would send the wrong message. It is not Tony who is at fault here. “I owe you, but this is not why I’m telling you this. I’m sorry that I had to nearly kill you to realize how much you really mean to me, but the answer is a lot. More than I’m willing to give up.”

There is more he could say, more that is building up inside his chest, but he has bared his soul enough and Tony is looking at him wide-eyed and almost scared but also so very hopeful.

“I – I don’t have a speech prepared,” he says, swallowing, “but of course I care for you too.”

Steve thinks it might be more than that. _Become_ more than that, at the very least. He does not say it, though, does not want to ruin with words what has to grow in its own time. They have made a first step here. One that was as surprising as it was long overdue.

_Of course,_ Tony said, like there was never any question. And if Steve had been willing to look beneath the surface, he might have known that there was not.

He holds on tight to Tony’s hand, afraid of losing contact, like that means this is all going to disappear.

“Don’t ever sacrifice yourself for me again.” Steve’s voice is firm, but the words are less of an order than a plea.

Tony does not promise, but he says something that is worth just as much. Maybe even more. “Then don’t ever let go of me again.”

A smile works itself onto Steve’s lips that, only moments later, is echoed by Tony’s own. “I won’t,” he whispers fervently. “I can’t and I won’t.”

“Took us long enough.” Tony grins and it is very lop-sided, due to the bandages. It must hurt and it is still the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen.

Slowly, he leans forward and gathers Tony’s face in his hand to press a kiss on his mouth. It is a delicate thing, a promise and a vow. It feels right in a way that nothing has ever felt before.

“But we got here,” Steve says, and what he means is: _From here on, we will walk together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [mitochondrials'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondrials) [art](https://www.deviantart.com/mitochondrials/art/When-You-Think-of-Heaven-771105014?ga_submit_new=10%3A1541280619)!  
> Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear from you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. And don't forget to check out the art by mitochondrials!  
> Please let me know what you think about this.


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